


The Sweater Two

by ReneeMR



Series: The Sweater [2]
Category: Highlander
Genre: Duncan/Methos - Freeform, Established couple, Highlander - Freeform, Humor, Joe Dawson - Freeform, M/M, MacLeod - Freeform, methos - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-03-19
Updated: 2002-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReneeMR/pseuds/ReneeMR
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'The Sweater.' Yes, you should read that one first.</p><p>Who says revenge is always best served cold?</p><p>See The Sweater here http://f1.grp.yahoofs.com/v1/MOlfSrtlNaLV--SiCsZ607tWbbO-a40mJMjdoRXn9QoiZj9GKPTH3T5m1jPWGSgjA7R6py3iMOJQxiUGmAva/4-10Image95.jpg</p><p>Originally posted 3-19-02</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sweater Two

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

MacLeod stripped the covers off his lover. Or rather, that was what he attempted to do. But Methos anticipated the move. Held on for dear life. And burrowed even deeper into his pillows.

"Methos, come on, get up."

"No," came the muffled response.

"Why not?"

"'Cause." The lump in the bed shifted. A long hand appeared. Then sleep-tousled hair. Finally, amber-gold eyes and a noble nose.

"I'm really pissed, MacLeod. And you know how I am when I'm pissed." He smirked for a moment, then disappeared beneath the comforter again.

Only to reappear a second later. "So, what are you going to do to make it up to me? Huh?"

The Scot sighed. "I already told you I'd buy you another sweater."

"And I get to pick it out."

"Of course."

"Okay, what else?"

"Breakfast, uh, brunch at Joe's?"

"And...?"

MacLeod had known he was going to have to pay--and pay big--for the sweater incident. Though he did think his participation in it's demise was a service to humanity. He decided to just go ahead and ask for his penance now. "All right, Methos. What do you want?"

"Ah." The ancient man settled back against his pillows. "Besides a new sweater, and brunch, I would like..."

 

"He did what? Joe looked from Methos to MacLeod.

"You heard me. He destroyed my favorite sweater."

"What happened? He washed it and it fell apart?" Joe almost snickered. He'd heard his friend bitching about Methos' clothes for... Hm. Since the two of them first got together. And, oh yeah, he remembered the sweater. Good for Mac, he thought.

MacLeod saw a chance for a bit of revenge and pounced. "Actually, I didn't touch it. At all."

Joe, observant man that he was, noticed the self-satisfied look on the Scot's face. And the faintest flush on Methos'. Ah.

"Got into a little wrestling match, guys?" He had considered that something could have happened while the were sparring. Nah. He went with his first instinct.

"Not me. No." Now the Scot was grinning broadly.

Methos groaned and got up. "Enough, MacLeod. You don't want this story to end up in your Chronicle, do you?"

"Guess not." The younger immortal looked at Joe and winked. He got up to follow his lover.

"Hey! Aren't you going to tell me what Methos is making you do?"

"No," both immortals answered.

 

The mall was crowded, being Saturday and all. Parking was at a premium unless you were into hiking.

"You should get Anne to give you one of those handicapped thingies." Methos said after MacLeod had make a fifth pass near the mall entrance.

"Methos!"

"Well, age should have some privileges." The oldest man on Earth smiled coyly.

"Sometimes..."

"What?" Methos grinned. "Ah, come on, Mac. You know I was joking."

"Ha ha."

The Scot finally gave up the quest. Not that he minded the long walk. It gave him ample opportunity for his favorite pastime. Methos-watching. The old man may have had an affinity for bulky, overlarge sweaters. But, God, he also managed to shoehorn himself into the tightest jeans he could find. When he sauntered around with his hands jammed in the pockets, well, naturally the sweater rode up in the back. Like now.

MacLeod had to remind himself not to forget to breathe. He followed his lover, but once inside the mall he moved beside him. It wouldn't do to let Methos get too far away. He'd learned that lesson their first Christmas together. The old man would just wander off when he found something new to interest him.

Busy with his reminiscing, MacLeod bumped into Methos. He hadn't noticed him stop.

"Hey, watch it. You could knock me down and break my neck. Then where'd we be?"

"Moving?"

Methos considered a moment. "Someplace warm?"

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

"But, then, I wouldn't need a new sweater," Methos pointed out slyly. "A beach towel, couple sarongs. The right place, wouldn't even need bathing suits..."

MacLeod had to admit he had a point. The Highlander's eyes started to glaze over as he thought of the possibilities. Damn. Methos had done it again. He ignored the sudden tightness in his jeans.

"Yeah." He shook himself mentally and looked around. Pointed to the left. "There's the place I want to check out." He shepherded Methos into one of the big name specialty stores.

The Highlander's eyes lit up when he saw the vast assortment of fashionable sweaters on display. He quickly picked out three he liked. He turned and found Methos studiously ignoring him.

It was going to be a long day.

Five stores and three bags--for MacLeod--later, the Scot was about ready to give up. Give out. Give in.

Methos... Well, Methos was having the time of his life. For this week, anyway. He'd bought a book, five CDs, his favorite after shave, socks, and a charm bracelet for Mary.

He'd also stopped at almost every food cart in the mall. Pretzels, ice cream, cotton candy, popcorn, coffee. And he was munching on a cookie as he eyed the entrance to the food court. "Mac?"

"You can't be serious. You haven't stopped eating..."

"Corn dogs. Cheese on a stick. Lemonade. All the food groups," he said brightly. "I thought you'd approve."

"Adam, you're gonna make me barf," the Scot said softly.

"Rich taught you that word, didn't he? Fine," the old man replied. With all the petulance of a thwarted four-year-old.

MacLeod sighed. "Okay come on..."

"No thanks. I seem to have lost my appetite." He offered the half-eaten cookie to his lover.

Long day. Real long day.

MacLeod took the proffered cookie and finished it in two bites. "Okay, let's go. I give up." He turned and started off.

Methos stopped. "What? Say that again" You--admitting defeat?"

"Conceding. That's all."

"Same thing."

"Okay, whatever. Let's go home."

"Oh, another concession." Methos gave the Scot one of his surprising, disarming smiles. "After we check one more place."

 

"Thrift store?" He should have known. He really should have.

"Sure, Mac. I bet..." Methos was already zeroing in on the rack of sweaters.

"What?"

"Oh, Mac, you're never going to believe this..."

The Scot trailed after him. Please, please don't let it be...

Methos was holding it up. "Awesome. Totally freaking... Mac, look."

Yes. It was the twin of it. No, no, no, the Scot thought. This can't be happening. Calm down, Duncan, he told himself. It's only a dream. No, it wasn't. It was a nightmare. If he pinched himself...

"Ow." Nope, it was real. Methos had his prize and was carrying it to the check out. The Highlander could only stare in horrified disbelief.

"Mac. Hey, Mr. Oblivious. I need two bucks."

"Two dollars? Why?"

"To pay for my new sweater."

Oh. God.

 

Methos was in a great mood. Except for his slightly upset stomach. He unloaded his day's haul. Put on one of the CDs. Placed the new novel under his pillow. Laid the sweater on the end of the bed. In plain sight.

MacLeod saw it as several things. A taunt. A temptation. A symbol of his defeat. "So, Ma Maison for dinner?"

"Another night?" Methos had poured himself a glass of warm ginger ale. Hoping it would calm his almost-nausea.

The Scot noticed. "Um, Methos, want me to make you some toast? How about some soup?" He was a bit concerned.

"No thanks. I think I'll go have a soak." The old man carried his glass with him as he headed to the bath. He stopped long enough to run a hand through his lover's hair. And place a kiss on his brow.

The Highlander sighed. How could the old man do it? Be such an absolute pain one second. And then go and do something that would make his lover... MacLeod sighed again.

Through the open door the Scot heard the water running. Stop. Then a soft splash. Methos must really be feeling bad, he thought. Maybe he'd like some company? But a growling stomach reminded him that he had only had half a cookie since brunch.

Soup, salad and a grilled cheese sandwich later, MacLeod was in a much better mood. He had even--sort of--come to terms with it. He went over to the bed.

Okay. It wasn't in as bad a shape as the other had been. As a matter of fact, it didn't look as if it had ever been worn. He snorted. It shouldn't. Ever. He reached out...

"Hold it right there Highlander!"

"Methos!" The name came out squeaked. "Hell, you... What?"

"Back away from my sweater right now." The naked old man stalked over and snatched up his treasure.

"I wasn't..."

"And I'm not giving you a chance to, either." He folded the sweater carefully and put it away in his drawer. "Touch it and you die, MacLeod." His eyes flashed with green, and he got a rosy flush. All over.

"All right. Fine. I get the message. I promise it's safe."

"Good." Methos stalked--still naked--into the galley.

The Scot looked at his lover appreciatively. Methos looked very, hm, delicious, when he went off like that. So much so that it could give a guy ideas. Lots of ideas.

"Methos." The name was practically purred. "Are you feeling better?"

"I might be." He looked at MacLeod. "Why?" He knew that tone in particular. And was instantly suspicious of it.

"Oh, I was just thinking..."

"What? What were you just thinking?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe, if you weren't feeling better, I could rub your neck. That would help, wouldn't it?"

Methos was pretty sure where the Scot was going with this. He hoped he was going there, anyway. He slumped just enough to lean against the bar. Tried to make himself look pitiful. He glanced at MacLeod from under lowered lashes to see if it was working.

"Just my neck?"

"Hm. The Scot walked over behind Methos. He put his hands on the old man's shoulders. "Well, you're pretty tight here too." He started easing his lover toward the bed.

"My back too, Mac," Methos murmured as he stretched out on the coverlet. He reached to guide one of MacLeod's hands. "Lower back."

"That's not your back," the younger man chuckled softly. But he kneaded the firm backside just the same.

Methos sighed contentedly. This was the life. Warm, relaxed. His nausea was long gone. Replaced by another burning deep inside him. He rolled on his side away from his Highlander, then reached for the man. "Enough, Mac. I want to..."

He rose up to his knees and pulled his lover to him. One hand went into the Scot's hair to cradle his head. The other slipped inside the waist of his jeans to tug loose his shirt. To caress under the shirt. Over toned muscles. One-handed he slipped loose the buttons until he could ease the shirt off the Scot's shoulders.

His hand never left MacLeod's head. His lips never ceased roaming across his lips. The long hand reached to unbuckle the belt.

MacLeod tried to help, but the old man pushed his hand away and pushed his tongue into his lover's mouth. The Scot groaned and Methos smiled against soft lips. A moment later he accomplished his goal. The last bit of cloth between Methos and MacLeod was banished. Forgotten somewhere on the floor.

"I have you now, my pretty," Methos growled. He pushed the Scot back on the bed and crawled over him.

"I really, really want to fuck you, Mac. Is that okay," Methos asked seriously? He looked down into MacLeod's face. Studied it as if he wasn't certain of himself.

"Oh, God, Methos, yes." The Scot nodded vigorously. "Okay."

"Sure?"

"Methos. Sure. Yes." The Highlander reached between their bodies and brought their cocks together. The velvet slide against the oldest man's thigh was almost enough to send him spiraling away.

He hissed, and Methos chuckled evilly. "Oh, look Mac, you've sprung a leak." He bent closer to observe the phenomena and the Scot whimpered. "Maybe I should do something about that? I think I should."

MacLeod's erection surged out of control when Methos touched him. The man had a wicked, sharp tongue, and God, he knew how to use it. The Scot babbled--something.

"Hmmm," Methos hummed around the cock he was sucking.

His lover arched against the mattress and the old man had to hang on to keep from falling off the bed. Then large, incredibly-surprising-every-time strong hands grasped his shoulders and pulled him up. He was face to face with a thoroughly aroused Scot.

"Damn, you, Methos," he ground out, "fuck me now."

Methos nodded. "Yes. Yes, my Highlander." What a sight. God, what a sight. The Renaissance masters would have eaten this one alive.

The ancient man gently pressed against his lover, and slid home on an exhalation of passionate delight. And from MacLeod's reaction, it wasn't too bad for him, either.

 

MacLeod looked up from the computer monitor when the phone rang. Telemarketer. Not his lover.

Methos had been up and gone before he even had a chance to say goodbye that morning. He couldn't believe the old man was still pissed over that fucking sweater. Especially since he'd found an exact replacement.

And he still couldn't believe that one. Methos swore it was magic. Yeah, right.

A moment later the Scot felt his lover's presence. The lift machinery started and he went over to wait for Methos.

"MacLeod, just in time. Come help me." Beside the old man was a large--something. A rectangle--three feet by four feet, and at least a foot deep.

"What's this, a painting?"

"No. But it is a work of art. And priceless, too."

The Scot gave him a sidelong look. There was something on Methos' face that triggered his suspicious gene. But he said nothing as he helped carry the thing into the loft and set it on the couch. Methos immediately began unwrapping it.

"Oh." MacLeod recognized what it was. "It's a shadow box... Ah, that's...No. Oh. God."

"Yes," Methos confirmed with a definite smirk. "My sweater."

Carefully, lovingly stuffed with a chest-shaped pillow. Backed by black velvet. It was truly, truly... MacLeod couldn't think of a fitting word for it.

Methos looked around the loft. "I think...I'll hang it right...there." He pointed to the space between two windows. Directly opposite MacLeod's side of the bed. Where it would be the last thing he saw at night, and the first thing in the morning.

"That okay, Mac?"

"Fine. Fine."

"Good."

Ah, yes, now. Who was it that said revenge was a dish best served cold? Not Methos. No. He preferred his fresh and hot.

 

End


End file.
